New Days - Old Hill(s)
Conversation's with friends...
Hello dear readers, I am hoping you have all recovered, if recovering was necessary, from the ravages of Christmas and New Years frantic frolics and shuffling’s about. All is calm again… all is bright, another year arranged in dust and memory’s.
Today I packed away the last of Christmas’ residue, the tree and a few forgotten, now rather sad and drooping, sprigs of holly and mistletoe. The replacement copper pan has been stored in a safe place in order to avoid any repetition of this years on going mystery, thereby ensuring I will almost certainly never find it again, and, next years mystery.
Tomorrows classes feel distant still—how quickly and easily I meld into the mould of days away from noisy, nevertheless, I hear already the chattering of holiday exchanges, girls enviously admiring each others new clothes, boys sporting the latest flash(ing) footwear and caps, all labelled, designer robbery… but lets not go there!
2025 is slipping into place, already…
The year has cycled again, how fast it spins! Here, unusually, light from early sun beams catch on sheet ice stretched across the lane, like lines of ants are all waving sparklers in celebration—perhaps of a prophetic beginning—all the signs of a good day to start anew.
Whether this new set of days turn in a trembling tempo of the as yet unknown, in resolutions and projects, or whether they slip into the normalcy of a circadian rhythm already known, accepted and loved is very much a personal choice. If change is our fate, perhaps we should embrace it, for who can tell what the future really has mapped out in this vast universe for any of us. Indeed, I far prefer to wait the hand of fate and the unknown, casting aside the making of resolutions, the following of plans and agendas, opting for something I consider more gentle, more attainable; not entirely a reset but a re-evaluation or reorganisation of priorities, in hope of an epiphany. So far they haven’t been my forte, quite the reverse; the adventures and discoveries in the search though, what fun!
So, I am content to remain quietly waiting, in continued contemplation of the known, the ever enchanting, still unknown—there is so much of it—because surely, reaching an epiphany halts curiosity and above all I wish to remain curious.
How to fill days in the future if not with curiosity?
Few days allow me the shameless, absolute pleasure of working in my tiny patch of stolen—I must find a different word, call it borrowed—nature. Necessary phone calls and messages, wonderful reminders of an almost forgotten past in different countries are delightfully reminiscent, nostalgically tearful moments with friends and family, deserving of my time. I give it freely but cannot deny an impatience to be outside in wintery sunlight, saw or scythe in hand, high on the heady scent of mossy decay and out of control ivy!
When all callers and emails and texts and unexpected passersby are loved and hugged, I run for the woods, spend three afternoons in sunshine that feels like spring is just around the corner—bliss—with a goal in mind that I don’t achieve. An undergrowth of brambles and privet and ivy have formed dense thickets of thousands of suckers rooted and re-rooted, thorny, woody and the last section of woodland to be cleared, small enough to be someones back garden, must be left once again, less abandoned but still unfinished.
I have created a puddle of light though! Found clumps of periwinkle in flower at the edges, cut a length of fallen tree which on closer inspection is Le Cerisier de Virginie (Prunus virginiana) or Choke Cherry, dragging it off to my husbands atelier for drying because the timber is not rotten and is—apparently—excellent for making bows. He is rapturous! And, when I return to admire the tiny puddle of light, I see that there are more, many, more! They are not healthy but they will be!
I receive a New Year’s message from a kindred spirit, a work colleague and friend who is to inherit many hectares of woodland. Untouched for fifty years it overlooks a valley in the Lot, surrounded by four chateaux with history dating back to Julius Ceasar—the mere thought of such a heritage makes me swoon! He has yet to begin the unimaginable task of clearing paths and overgrowth in such an overwhelming expanse and I offer my help when he is ready to begin, why would I not? Work on my own, no more than a postage stamp by comparison, is almost done.
He thanks me, saying he will accept with pleasure but tells me I should be thinking of resting having achieved already what most would have left. I try to explain in flurries of bad grammar—perfect French is still an enigma even after twenty years of daily practice—in hurried apologetic texts, that such work is never finished, that I will be in search of more trees to save, more paths to resurrect, he texts back to me with concern.
“C’est là ta chance d’en adopter d’autres mais gare à toi, il ne faut pas lasser la santé.”
I send a passionate reply, in French, in heated opposition. Which took forever!
The day ends with a cremation, my old cockerel gave up his long, dizzy battle, keeled over in front of me and was gone—RIP Frank, you were a wobbly bird from the start but we loved you all the more for it—and, I have yet to receive an answer from my friend.
This morning, and foreboding smudge of crimson to the East, spills—faster than I’d like because it is a beautiful sight—over the tops of the hills to the West, a hot lava burning away the mist. A beauty that doesn’t last…
A calf is born in the quagmire that is the field, all fields at the moment. He is the second I have found this year already. He is weak from his exertions, shivering from the cold. The mother is bellowing and pacing anxiously beside him but despite many nudges with her nose his front and hind legs are so stuck in gluey mud, his tiny and still frail body, no doubt already exhausted from simply being born, have no strength left to heave his body free. It is a desperate sight but I cannot risk helping alone, the mother, very agitated, has horns and the bull is watching. I call the farmer, for the second time in as many days, barely begin to explain before he says he’s on his way. I wait, calmly chattering to them all from safe distance while a tiny Goldcrest is twittering from a fallen plum tree close by.
Monsieur arrives like a rally driver in a white van, throws a quick glance at the calfs predicament, utters a torrent of expletives which never sound quite so terrible in French and leaves again, shouting as he does,
“Je reviendrai avec le camion!”
Which he does, throws open the door, wades into the knee deep mud, picks up the calf as if he’s no heavier than a kitten and plonks him indecorously in the back with mum following. As simple as that, just like a perfect happy-ever-after scene from James Herriot!
I walk back along the lane with a half smile, the calf will be fine but all I can think of is how can it possibly be that my son is sixteen years old today…
“It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.”
Aldus Huxley
With love, and longing for time to slow down…
Susie X
Here are just few of the many essays and stories I have read and loved this week…
asked about shapeshifting, and what animal we would choose in one of always inspirational essays. My answer, of course, was a hare.
posted an interview with which was such a natural and easy conversation between two people who have both fought, and won, battles against some truly debilitating illnesses. Both have written their captivating stories which are free for everyone to read, I highly recommend both!
The interview ⬇️
Eric’s story ⬇️ (each chapter is linked to the next)
Kimberly’s story ⬇️ (again, all chapters are linked)
Oh Susie, what a post!
The photo of your son - he looks like a brooding 70's rock star. 🤩
And the calf - oh life can be so brutal but hopefully a happy ending for the little muddy one.
Sending you love and thoughts for the loss of your cockerel Frank.
xx❤️
Oh! And those ants with sparklers!!! I will never unsee this!